


(Not at All) Like the Ones I Used to Know

by LiraelClayr007



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, First Kiss, M/M, Mistletoe, a hint of Steve/Tony, oblivious boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21835777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Christmas comes to Avengers Tower and Bucky's a bit...overwhelmed. He hasn't had Christmas in years, and back then it wasn't so loud, or so bright. Shopping is more complicated now, too, and he wants to give someone a present...
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 23
Kudos: 116





	(Not at All) Like the Ones I Used to Know

Christmas appears in the Tower on December first.

If the rest of them had given in to Tony, it would have started a few days after Halloween, but they put their collective feet down. “Please don’t skip autumn,” Nat had said. “It’s bad enough just knowing winter is on its way. You don’t have to remind us so blatantly.” He’d pouted, but eventually he stopped arguing. Although they did have to repeatedly ask JARVIS to “turn off the damn Christmas music” every time they walked onto the common floor. Tony just smirked.

But it was too much to ask that he flip the calendar page to December _and_ leave the Christmas decorations in their boxes, so even though there is no snow that cold December morning there is plenty of Christmas cheer to go around in the Tower. Most everyone gets right into the spirit along with Tony; Thor puts on a Santa hat and helps get the tree in place, Bruce argues with Tony about how many lights they need to be the most aesthetically pleasing, Clint sits back and shouts directions for best ornament placement. Natasha mostly watches and criticizes, but she laughs a lot. Steve gets tasked to carry boxes and move furniture around to accommodate the new setup. Sometimes having super strength means getting put to work, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Bucky’s not sure what to think about any of it. He may be nearly a hundred years old, but he hasn’t had a Christmas since the 40s, and it was very different then. Fewer lights, fewer _things_, less noise. Of course, that pretty much describes New York from then to now too. This Christmas thing is just a bit overwhelming. Everyone else seems to be fairly enthusiastic, but Bucky just wants to stay on his floor where it’s quiet.

But Steve knocks on his door with a big grin and asks if he wants to help decorate the tree. When Bucky hesitates Steve gets that puppy dog look, that one that says, “Come on, Buck. Don’t make me worry about saving the world and taking care of your mental health too.” It’s unfair, and Bucky knows it, and Steve probably knows it too, but it’s easier to just pull on a sweatshirt and stomp (Not with a passive-aggressive stomp. Just an ordinary stomp.) to the elevator.

The common floor is both worse and better than Bucky had imagined. It’s noisy, with Christmas music playing too loud and everyone shouting to be heard over it. But it’s warm, not just the temperature but the atmosphere. Everyone is happy, laughing and teasing, working together to make things festive. Even the ones arguing--Sam and Natasha have differing opinions on angel vs. star for the tree topper--are light-hearted.

He could do without the mistletoe. He’s leaning against a doorframe when Tony walks by, grabs him by the front of his shirt, and kisses him on the tip of his nose. Bucky glares daggers at him, thinking of the actual daggers hidden about his person, but Tony only winks. “Better watch where you stand, big guy,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away.

“Depends on who’s standing with me,” pops out of his mouth. He’s confounded that his brain did nothing to stop his mouth, and thankful that the music is too loud for anyone to hear. Tony, for sure, would never let that one go.

Bucky hastily steps away from the doorway, narrowly avoiding Clint, who rushes past with an oversized mug in one hand and an arrow in the other. He nimbly climbs up to the top of a nearby stepladder and perches at the top, surveying the room. He downs half of the mug’s contents in one go and then stops, nearly choking, to shout, “No! That’s way too high, Bruce. Bring your end down.” He points with the arrow as he speaks, gesturing downward. Bucky follows the arrow’s point and sees Bruce and Wanda trying to hang garland around the edges of the room.

Clint looks down and Bucky and grins. “I don’t really need the arrow, but it adds to the dramatics of the thing, don’t you think?

“Until you fall and impale yourself.”

His grin widens, and there’s a teasing glint in his eye. “Nah. Never happen. If I fall, you’ll be there to catch me.”

The edges of Bucky’s mouth quirk upward. Cheeky bastard.

Clint stumbles into the kitchen, hands outstretched. Bucky puts a mug of coffee into his grasping hands, says, “Don’t worry, I left out Tony’s ridiculous Christmas creamers.”

After Clint’s had a long swallow, he sighs and drowsily smiles at Bucky. “You’re like sunshine in the morning. Except delivering coffee instead of sunlight. Way better.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’d say that to a pig if it delivered you coffee.”

“Mmm, bacon.” Clint’s eyes glaze over. He grins. “Let’s make breakfast for the team. Bacon and eggs, maybe some toast. I’ll even let you have the first piece of bacon. And then, at the end of the meal, I won’t get in the way, I’ll let you fight Natasha for the last piece.” He looks Bucky up and down. “You know, I think I’d enjoy watching that fight. I may just make sure that happens.”

“Calm down, Barton,” Bucky says, pulling three dozen eggs and several pounds of bacon out of the refrigerator. “Let’s get through breakfast first and deal with assassin death matches later. Think you can handle making toast?”

Clint shrugs. He mans the toaster with one hand and nurses his coffee with the other.

Bucky’s on his way to the common floor for a snack when he runs into Clint going in the other direction. “You don’t want to go that way,” he says. “Trust me. Tony’s making everyone wear Santa hats. Or elf hats. Natasha is braiding little jingle bells into Thor’s hair.”

Suddenly queasy and not at all thinking about popcorn anymore, he says, “Thanks, Barton. I owe you one.”

“How about some target practice?” Clint says. “It’s more fun with two. And it’s more true to life if there are distractions around.”

Bucky makes a derisive noise in his throat. “As if you have to worry about that. Do you ever miss?”

Clint grins, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Guess you’ll have to come with me to find out.”

Rolling his eyes--and thinking that he rolls his eyes at Clint more than at anyone else--he says, “I’ve been to the range with you dozens of times. I’ve never seen you miss.”

Clint actually winks at him. “You just have to work harder at being a distraction.”

He turns and walks away, chuckling.

The day Bucky figures out Clint Barton will be the day they paint the Statue of Liberty orange and change her name to Clementine.

Christmas has even invaded movie night. Bucky’s never seen _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, though, and he likes it so far. Or he would, if not for the cold. The Tower is freezing tonight, he swears he can feel the wind cutting straight through the glass. It’s hard to concentrate on Sally and Jack when he’s trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Here,” Clint murmurs from the other end of the sofa, throwing him an extra blanket. Bucky must make a confused face because Clint raises his eyebrows and says, “You’re cold, aren’t you?”

Bucky nods and thanks him in a low voice. Steve looks at them both questioningly, then shares an odd glance with Tony.

But he doesn’t feel like playing, “What’s everyone thinking?” tonight. He spreads the second blanket over himself, and soon he’s fully engrossed in Halloweentown.

He doesn’t notice Natasha’s knowing smile.

“I need to get a Christmas present for someone.”

Steve looks up from his game of Mario Kart to stare at Bucky.

“You just fell off over Yoshi Falls,” Bucky says.

Steve waves at the game, then says, “Forget about that. Can you turn it off JARVIS?”

“Right away, Captain Rogers,” answers the AI.

“You were doing really well, you didn’t have to--”

“Buck. A present?”

Bucky just looks at him, then says, “It’s been seventy years since the last time I went Christmas shopping. And… Look. I’m re-learning how to be a friend. I don’t want to get something stupid. This…” He looks away. After a minute of silence, he shrugs. “It’s important to me.”

“Who’s it for?”

“I…” He looks at Steve, thinks about it, then decides. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

Steve looks like he really wants to say something, but he lets it go. Finally he says, “It’s really hard for me to help you if you aren’t going to give me anything to go on. All I’ll have are generic gift ideas, and I’m guessing you’ve already thought about those.”

Bucky nods, his mouth set in a firm line.

“You’ve got to think about the person, what they like, or need, or just really want.” He shrugs, then clasps Bucky’s shoulder. “That’s all I’ve got, Buck. You’ll have to figure out the rest.”

So he spends the next few days watching Clint. Not like a creepy stalker, standing across the room and staring. He just pays attention. A lot of things, when he notices them, he realizes he’d already known. Like that Clint likes purple. He’s almost always wearing something purple--socks, t-shirt, hoodie. He’s got a great pair of purple Converse that Bucky is almost envious of. He makes a note to find a pair for himself, only in red.

Of course he’d already known that Clint is addicted to coffee, but when he watches he sees that he has a specific mug that he likes. It’s not any bigger than the others (or not much), but the ceramic is a bit heavier. Bucky wonders if maybe it keeps the coffee hotter longer. Which is completely unnecessary in Clint’s case, because he’d never dream of letting a cup of coffee sit long enough to cool.

People are a mystery.

Clint is friendly to everyone--once he’s had his coffee--but with two people his interactions are unique. With Natasha he’s like a brother and a best friend and an overprotective dad somehow bound together in one person. The day she comes back from a mission with a banged up knee he practically carries her to medical even though she’s glaring and telling him she can damn well take care of herself, but the look in her eye says she loves him no matter what her words are saying. When they play Mario Kart she shrieks laughter when she’s ahead and he responds by pushing her off the sofa onto the floor. “That’s cheating!” she yells, falling behind. “That’s not what you said in Budapest,” he says, and then they’re both laughing, and the game doesn’t matter much anymore. (Until Natasha ducks under Clint’s offered hug and beats him to the finish line by nearly half a lap.) And at movie night he sits behind her, completely engrossed in braiding her hair. It’s the only time Bucky’s ever seen her look anything near peaceful.

And then… Well. Clint is different with _Bucky_, too. It’s not anything he can quantify. Maybe he’s imagining the whole thing. But it seems that maybe Clint smiles at him a little longer. That he winks at him more often. That he invites him to target practice more than the others. It’s probably just his imagination.

It can’t be wishful thinking. Because that would imply that Bucky is wishing for something. Hoping for something.

Which he isn’t.

Honestly, he just wants to give Clint a present.

Bucky is new (or new again) at this human interaction thing, this whole “being a friend” thing, and Clint has helped him with that. Clint is his friend. And friends give each other gifts at Christmastime, right?

After a few days he notices something new, something he realizes he’d been seeing all along but just didn’t put together--Clint has a lot of Avengers stuff. None of the others seem to have the stuff around, with the notable exception of the full set of Avengers shot glasses Tony insists on keeping on display behind the bar. But Clint’s got t-shirts, keychains, water bottles. The shirt that catches Bucky’s eye is grey with Captain America’s shield on it; it fits Clint well, shows off his pecs and his arms.

Clint sees Bucky looking and grins. “Like what you see?”

Bucky swallows, or tries to. His mouth is drier than usual. “Nice shirt.”

Eyes glinting, Clint says, “Uh-huh.”

Apparently Clint isn’t going to help him out. Bucky tries again. “You’ve got a lot of Avengers stuff.”

Now Clint laughs. “It started out as a joke. Kate sent me a whole box of Hawkey merch. _Her_ Hawkey merch. Of course I couldn’t not wear the shirts, that would be a waste. Plus I do love her, even when she’s a pain in my ass. But then I thought the rest of the team might get jealous.” He shrugs. “I picked up a few t-shirts...and things sort of spiraled out of control.” He nods toward the door. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

And that’s how Bucky finds himself in Clint’s apartment.

“Woah,” Bucky says before he can stop himself. He closes his mouth with a clack, hoping Clint didn’t see, but when he looks from the corner of his eye he sees Clint forcibly holding in his laughter.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing out loud now. “I told you it spiraled out of control.”

Clint’s rooms are like a shrine to the Avengers. No, that’s a bit strong. Maybe not a shrine, but definitely an ode. Possibly a sonnet.

Whatever it’s called, Bucky sees the Avengers _everywhere_. There are tiny action figures of all of them posed all over the room--Hulk punching Thor in the face, Iron Man and Captain America glaring at each other, Black Widow just about to knock Black Panther off his feet, Falcon soaring above them all--he must be hanging on a nearly invisible thread. There’s even a tiny Nick Fury--he must have had that one made special, Bucky’s pretty sure Fury’s more of a behind-the-scenes guy--looking up at a tiny Spider-man scaling the wall. 

There’s an Avengers blanket tossed haphazardly over the back of the sofa, and the throw pillows have Cap’s shield on them. “I’ve got Hulk sweatpants, an Iron Man bottle opener, even a Black Widow backpack. That one drives Nat crazy. Oh, and look at this,” Clint says, holding up a hairbrush in the shape of a hammer. “I couldn’t pass this one up. I don’t use it on me, though, it’s for Lucky.” When Bucky shoots him a confused look, Clint says, “My dog. You haven’t met him yet, he’s been in California with Kate. Been trying to talk her into coming back for a visit, but she’s holding out for spring and warmer weather. I think the Californian sun has gotten to her brain.”

“Tony lets you keep a _dog_ in here?”

“Mostly he lives in my Bed-Stuy apartment. But sometimes I bring him here. And Tony _wishes_ he could tell me what to do.”

Bucky snorts a laugh.

Clint’s standing in a doorway, waving him in. “The best stuff’s in here.”

And that’s how Bucky finds himself in Clint’s bedroom. It’s a disaster--clothes, shoes, blankets, a leash, several empty and tipped over glasses. He thinks there’s an armchair in the corner, but it’s piled so high with laundry he’s not quite sure.

“How do you find the bed?” Bucky asks, then immediately wants to take it back. He’s standing in Clint’s bedroom. He should not be asking him about his _bed_. And then Clint raises his eyebrows, as if reading Bucky’s mind. He feels his face heat up. “Can you just forget I said that?”

Clint’s face stays neutral, impassive. “If that’s what you want.” His voice is steady, but there’s the undertone of a question there.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, looking away.

“_Anyway_…” he says, starting over, “I didn’t bring you in here to talk about my housekeeping habits. Check this out.” He opens his closet door, revealing a surprisingly tidy space. On one side of the rather large closet he’s got his tac gear, some hung up, some stored on shelves. There are spaces for his bows, and multiple quivers, and a multitude of arrows. Bucky has seen the collection in the armory--much larger than this--so these must be Clint’s personal favorites. The other half of the closet is filled with civilian clothes--sweaters and jackets on hangers, some nice shirts, even what looks like a tuxedo. But that’s not what Clint wanted him to see. The pride of Clint’s Avengers collection: a shelf packed full of carefully folded sweatshirts, every color of the rainbow, each one with a different symbol on the front. Some of them Bucky’s never seen on clothing before, though he recognizes the symbols.

“I’ve got hoodies for pretty much everyone,” he boasts. “Some of them are pretty rare--not many people have Carol’s, and hardly anyone has a Thor with his hammer _and_ his axe.”

“And you don’t feel weird wearing your teammates’ images across your chest?” Clearly he doesn’t, but Bucky is genuinely curious.

“Nah,” Clint says. “I love my teammates. Even the ones I want to throttle on a daily basis.”

“Tony?” Bucky asks, his lips curving up in a smile.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that information,” Clint says, kicking the Iron Man sweatshirt gently with the toe of his purple converse.

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“Well Hawkeye’s is purple, so that’s a definite bonus, but--”

“Wait, do you mean you Hawkeye or Kate Hawkeye?”

“Yes,” Clint says, and grins.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “So you’re saying _your_ shirt is your favorite?”

“I just said it has an advantage, because it’s purple. If you haven’t noticed, I happen to like purple.”

Taking in all the discarded purple laundry around the room, Bucky chuckles dryly. “I noticed.”

Clint ignores Bucky’s sarcasm. “I like Kate’s shirt too. Oh, and my Rocket hoodie is super comfortable for some reason. And please don’t tell Nat but I probably wear hers more than anyone else’s. Except mine. Because purple.”

“Because purple,” Bucky echoes.

Bucky sits on his sofa. “Uh, JARVIS?”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Can you help me find a Christmas gift for Cl--uh, Agent Barton?”

“Of course. Do you have something particular in mind?”

He does, actually. But he doesn’t think it exists.

“He wears a lot of Avengers clothing,” Bucky says.

“I have observed that, yes.”

“JARVIS, am I an Avenger?”

Does he detect a slight hesitation before JARVIS answers? A tiny hiccup of space?

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes. Would you like to see you official records?”

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. “No, JARVIS, that’s not necessary.”

He’s an Avenger (honestly, why had he needed validation from Tony’s AI?), fully accepted by his teammates, but barely recognized by the rest of the world. (Except for the ones who are terrified of him, but that’s a thought for another day.) He’s the black sheep of the Avengers. Maybe someday he’ll be something more, but for now he’s just...here. And that’s fine, he does his job. He doesn’t need the adoration of the public.

But that means there are no Winter Soldier t-shirts. No action figures, no lunch boxes. Of course he knows what he wants to give to Clint. He’s got a solid collection of Avengers hoodies, but there’s one missing.

Too bad that one doesn’t exist.

“What if I want to give him something that doesn’t exist?”

“I’m well-versed in both theoretical physics and philosophy, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky blinks. “Theoretical…? No, JARVIS. I want to give Agent Barton a Winter Soldier hoodie for Christmas. They don’t exist. Is there anything that can be done about that?”

This is getting ridiculous. Christmas shopping used to be walking downtown with Stevie, looking in shop windows until he found something he thought maybe Becca would like. Now he’s talking to nothing, dodging questions about theoretical physics, and trying to acquire something that exists only in his head.

He suddenly feels very old.

Christmas morning should be full of excitement, or anticipation, or something equally childlike and uplifting. Bucky wakes up on December 25 with a stomach full of nervous butterflies.

He tells himself over and over again that it’s just a present. That it doesn’t mean all that much. That he just wants to thank Clint for helping him figure out how to make a friend again, what it means to _be_ a friend again.

But then he thinks of Clint smiling. Of Clint smiling at _him_.

And then he frets some more.

Finally he decides there’s nothing he can do but head up to the common floor. They’d agreed to meet for cinnamon rolls at nine; it’s only 8:15, but if he gets there early he can make coffee for everyone. (Not for Clint. Or not _just_ for Clint.)

Fuck.

He expects the common floor to be empty, but Nat is already there, and so is Steve. Bucky smiles in spite of his anxiety. Steve was always up early on Christmas morning, even the years he hadn’t expected any kind of gifts. Too excited to sleep. Sometimes when Bucky looks at him he still sees that scrawny, enthusiastic kid, all smiles and elbows.

“Merry Christmas, Stevie,” he says, and Steve turns around to show the giant grin on his face.

“Bucky! You’re up!” He bounds over and pulls Bucky into a crushing hug. Good thing Bucky’s a supersoldier or he’d be struggling to breathe. “Merry Christmas, Buck.” He flaps a hand at the decorations covering practically every inch of the room. “A bit different from when we were kids, huh?”

Shaking his head slowly, Bucky says, “I don’t think ‘a bit’ covers this.”

“But it’s pretty, right? Would have been nice to have just a fraction of this back then.”

Bucky snorts. LED lights, blown glass ornaments, and velvet ribbons, in their wreck of an apartment? “It would have been a disaster,” he says. “You’d have knocked over the tree, broken the glass balls, and burned down the entire building in thirty seconds.”

“Bet I know someone who could do it faster,” Steve says in a low voice, pitched for supersoldier ears only. He glances over Bucky’s shoulder, then back at Bucky, and the guy actually has the nerve to wink.

“Shut up, Stevie,” Bucky says, feeling his cheeks heat up. He doesn’t have to look to know Clint is here.

Steve claps a hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “You should go for it, Buck.” Before Bucky can even open his mouth to answer Steve’s gone, flopping onto the sofa next to Natasha.

What had _that_ been about?

He’s still wondering when Clint comes up next to him. “Merry Christmas,” he says. He doesn’t sound particularly merry; mostly he sounds like he’s still sleeping.

“Merry Christmas,” Bucky says, a smile in his voice. He bumps his shoulder against Clint. “Come on, let’s get you some coffee.”

Clint climbs onto a stool, resting his forehead on the counter in front of him.

“Why’d you get up so early?” Bucky asks as he pours water into the coffeemaker. “You’ve got almost half an hour before Tony brings the cinnamon rolls down.”

Through a jaw-cracking yawn, Clint says, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Too excited to see what Santa put in your stocking?”

Clint folds his arms and rests them on the counter, then buries his face in the crook of his elbow. “Something like that,” he mutters.

Flipping the coffeemaker’s switch to the on position, Bucky turns to face the almost-awake archer. “I didn’t sleep much either,” he says, trying to keep the nerves from cracking his voice.

Clint grunts a reply. Bucky decides to forgo conversation until the coffee is ready.

He pads around the kitchen, pulling mugs down from the cupboard, the floor cool through his socks. He’d been so intent on getting here he’d forgotten to put shoes on, but Clint’s still wearing plaid pajama pants, so he doesn’t think anyone will mind his lack of footwear.

The machine beeps; he pours two cups of coffee and sets one on the counter next to Clint’s head. It’s almost comical, the way he lifts his head, sniffing the air and making almost obscene noises of pleasure. “Oh, Buck, what would I do without you?”

Bucky knows it’s just the ramblings of a caffeine addict, but he can’t help the warm, glowing feeling in his stomach. It’s keeping the butterflies company.

They sit in silence, side by side, Bucky sipping his coffee and Clint gulping his. Bucky idly wonders how Clint can drink hot coffee like that without scalding his throat. Or his stomach lining. Maybe that’s his superpower. He chuckles.

Clint turns so his knee bumps against Bucky’s. “What’s funny?” he asks, his voice slightly closer to awake than before.

“Just considering your coffee addiction,” Bucky says, hiding behind his own mug. He hopes Clint doesn’t detect the slightly panicked, deflecting tone in his voice.

When Clint finishes his second cup and starts on his third, Bucky says, “I, uh, I have a present for you.”

Clint jerks his head up; he has a surprised look on his face, but it’s replaced by his easy smile before Bucky can blink. “What, the coffee wasn’t my present?”

In a high-pitched, teasing voice Bucky says, “Farm boy, fetch me that coffee.”

With a laugh, Clint says in a roguish voice, “As you wish.”

Bucky barely suppresses a shiver. He knows Clint is just following the script, but he can’t help but remember the rest of that scene: _That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying “As you wish,” what he meant was “I love you.”_

He’s probably reading too much into the situation again. Clint’s his _friend_.

Right?

Mentally shaking himself out of this line of thought, Bucky says, “There’s an actual present you can unwrap under the Christmas tree. I don’t think there was any unwrapping involved with the coffee, although if it had been wrapped you probably wouldn’t have noticed. Just tear through the paper with your teeth and get on with swallowing as much of the coffee in one gulp as possible.”

Clint grins. “You really get me, Buck.” He puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder when he says it. He doesn’t flinch away from the metal arm at all; either he doesn’t notice that half of his hand is on Bucky’s metal arm, or he doesn’t care.

Both of these possibilities feel like a revelation.

When Clint stands up and pulls his hand away Bucky feels the loss. No one ever touches his metal arm, not even Steve. But Clint is talking again so Bucky has to stop thinking and pay attention.

“...actually have a present for you too,” Clint says. Bucky’s so startled he knocks over his stool. Thankfully he’s already standing up; if he’d been sitting on the stool when it fell there might now be a supersoldier-shaped hole in the floor. Clint squats to pick up the stool before Bucky has the chance; he looks up at Bucky with a laughing grin and says, “Hey, I’m supposed to be the one who knocks things over. Quit stealing my moves.”

Bucky mumbles something unintelligible and reaches down to help Clint stand. When he’s on his feet Bucky realizes he’s clasping Clint’s hand in his, and that he’s probably been holding on too long; he’s just standing there, holding Clint’s hand, trying to decipher the look in his eyes. Hastily he lets go and walks to retrieve Clint’s present from underneath the tree.

He’s halfway there before he realizes Clint hadn’t let go either.

_Just give him the present_, he tells himself. He can figure out the rest later. Not that there’s anything to figure out.

Before he can think anymore they’re sitting together on the smallest sofa; the two of them barely fit. They’re turned slightly towards each other and their knees are pressed together. Bucky nervously clears his throat then says, “So. This is just…” He clears his throat again, trying to figure out what to say. The silence keeps stretching, not quite uncomfortable but full of expectation, so he finally sighs and says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and Bucky is momentarily captivated by the pale lashes brushing his cheeks when he blinks. “Merry Christmas.” He takes the red and green box from Bucky’s hand and replaces it with one wrapped in purple paper.

Bucky has to chuckle. “Purple?” he asks.

“What’s wrong with purple?” Clint asks, mock offended.

“Not a thing,” Bucky says. “Not really a Christmas color, though.” What he doesn’t say is that he’s starting to like purple rather a lot.

Clint tears into the wrapping paper and rips off the lid of the box. Bucky has only a moment to think that Clint opens presents with the reckless abandon of a kid when he hears Clint suck in a breath. “Bucky,” he says. There’s a strained quality to his voice, almost like he’s fighting to hold something back.

Bucky’s stomach drops. This had been a bad idea.

He starts to say something but Clint cuts him off. “Don’t. Just open your present.” He presses a hand over his mouth.

When he opens the box he gets the joke. And it really _is_ a joke, on both of them.

Because inside the box from Clint is a Hawkeye hoodie.

Clint is laughing now, laughing so hard he falls onto Bucky’s lap, knocking the box and purple sweatshirt onto the floor. He’s holding his own new Winter Soldier hoodie to his chest.

“It’s awesome! Where did you get this? I’ve been looking for one, I thought maybe they didn’t exist. Damn, I can’t believe you found this.”

Bucky feels his face heat up again. “I didn’t actually find it. I, uh, designed it. And JARVIS had it made for me. For you, I mean.”

Clint’s eyes widen. “It’s one-of-a-kind? That settles it, this is my new favorite sweatshirt.” He pulls it over his head, over his Hawkeye t-shirt.

The hoodie is simple, a charcoal grey shirt with a fist-sized red star in the center of the chest. What makes it unmistakably Bucky’s design is the light grey left sleeve.

“Looks good on you,” Bucky says. And it’s true. Clint’s mop of blond hair practically glows against the dark grey, and his eyes…

Why is he suddenly noticing Clint’s eyes?

He’s seen them so many times--sighting down his bow, gazing into a cup of coffee, intently focused on Mario Kart--but without warning he’s bewitched.

And then something Clint had said suddenly hits home. “Wait, you were looking for one of these? You wanted _my_ shirt?”

“Well, yeah. You’re the only Avenger I don’t--didn’t--have.”

“Oh.”

Clint’s just happy to complete his collection. That’s all.

Not that Bucky wants Clint to be thinking anything else.

“Besides,” Clint goes on, “it’s _you_, you know? We’ve become…” He looks around the room, as if the rest of his thought is going to appear written in twinkle lights somewhere. He finally locks his gaze on Bucky’s eyes, and then he says, “We’ve become...friends. Haven’t we?”

Bucky’s mouth goes dry, but it’s okay that he can’t talk because he doesn’t know what to say. The silence stretches between them, heavy and bright, and he’s hoping someone says something soon (Clint, please let it be Clint) when suddenly Tony pops up behind the sofa, right into the space between their faces. They both jump.

“Did you two camp out under the mistletoe on purpose?” he asks. “Some of us have a bet going. I personally think you did, since you didn’t even look towards the kitchen when I announced that breakfast had arrived. Legolas is usually the first in line.”

“Go away, Tony,” Bucky says, not looking away from Clint’s eyes for even a flicker. “There’s probably at least one person here who wants to hear the sound of your voice. Go find them.”

He hears Tony walk away but doesn’t look to see if anyone else is watching. His brain flashes back to Steve saying, “You should go for it, Buck,” and then he’s back, and Clint’s smiling at him. He looks up at the mistletoe then back at Bucky, and his expression says, _I’m game if you are._ It feels like a challenge. A dare.

And Bucky isn’t exactly known for running from a challenge.

For just a breath there’s a hint of hesitation and then their mouths crash together. Bucky feels the world turn upside-down and then right itself again; but it’s like he’s in a snowglobe because everything is suddenly sparkling. Beautiful.

He fists a handful of Clint’s new Winter Soldier sweatshirt and pulls him closer, and then Clint’s fingers are in his hair and when did that happen? He can’t think, can’t get his brain on track, so he stops trying. For the first time in longer than he wants to contemplate he just lets himself _feel_. Soft fabric in his hand. Fingers tangled in his hair. His heartbeat pounding in his ears. The taste of coffee on Clint’s lips.

Clint’s lips.

When they stop they’re both breathing hard, and they both have ridiculous grins on their faces. “I didn’t know the mistletoe was there,” Bucky says.

“I did,” Clint says. “I kept waiting for you to notice.”

Bucky laughs. “Maybe don’t be so subtle next time.”

“I didn’t think I was all that subtle,” Clint grumbles. “Gave you my sweatshirt, didn’t I?”

Picking up the fallen box, Bucky holds up the Hawkeye hoodie. “This looks like it would fit _you_,” he says suspiciously.

“Well, yeah,” says Clint. “That’s the idea…”

“Clint, did you give me _your_ sweatshirt?”

“No! I mean, yeah, I kind of did. But it’s more than that. I gave you my _favorite_ sweatshirt.”

Bucky looks at the pile of purple fabric on his lap, notices the slightly worn cuffs and the way the dye has faded in spots. His brain short-circuits and then resets itself. How is this happening? “Shut up, brain,” he mutters, barely moving his lips. Then, louder, “So. It’s been a long time since I was in this sort of...situation. And times have, ah, changed.” Clint’s eyes are dancing, but he doesn’t say anything, giving Bucky room to find his words. “But if I put this on, then you and I are...connected?”

Clint suddenly looks wary, and vulnerable. “Uh...yeah?” He actually bites his lower lip, and Bucky’s brain whites out again, thinking about _his_ teeth scraping across Clint’s lip.

But Clint is sitting there, eyes big and beautiful and unsure, so Bucky tells his brain to shut up (again) and pulls the sweatshirt over his head. It’s big and soft and absolutely perfect. He can even detect a hint of Clint’s smell in the fabric. His brain asks when he started being aware of how Clint _smells_, but he ignores it. He has to push up the cuffs to get his hands out of the too-long sleeves, and then he cups Clint’s face in his hands and moves to kiss him. Just before their lips meet Bucky says, “Good.”

Someone decides on _White Christmas_ after dinner. Bucky has a few twinges at the World War II bits--he sees an odd look on Steve’s face once too--but it’s mostly good. Music and dancing and misunderstandings. And he’s sitting next to Clint, their fingers twined together, so he can’t complain.

There had been some good-natured teasing at breakfast. And at lunch. And dinner. And quite a bit of the time in between. Nat high-fived Steve and as one they said, “Finally!” Thor had boomed out "Well done!" in his giant voice. Tony told them to knock off all the kissing, but when Steve reminded him that he’d been the one to hang all the mistletoe he closed his mouth so fast Bucky could hear his teeth clack together.

And when Steve pulled Tony under another sprig of mistletoe he didn’t seem to mind the excessive kissing.

“Movie night is better with someone to snuggle,” Clint says, resting his head against Bucky’s. Bucky just smiles and squeezes his hand.

Maybe Christmas isn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This sort of got away from me. When I started it (about a month ago!) I thought it would be just a little thing.
> 
> But just like the obliviousness of these boys...it grew. 😂
> 
> Happy Christmas!
> 
> 💜⭐️


End file.
